Lucy Prunedale Whore ❤️❤️

About San Jose

Alright, dahling, listen up! I’m slingin’ drinks, mixin’ chaos, and spillin’ tea about—whore. Not just any whore, mind you, but *the* vibe, the mess, the whole damn circus. Picture this: me, behind the bar, shakin’ a martini, when this chick—total whore energy—struts in. Heels clackin’, attitude stinkin’ up the joint. Reminds me of *Werckmeister Harmonies*, ya know? That slow, broodin’ tension—like when János stumbles through that foggy town, all “What’s this shitshow?” No capes! None! She didn’t need ‘em, just pure, unfiltered *whore*.

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My Master wants me to be available and to seek any BBC DOMS or any hung TOPS/DOMS. I am a whore and deserve nothing more than to be treated like one. Master.

Man, I chill on Oakridge Ave near Riverside Park. That spot's a gem, dawg. You stroll down Willow St, past Crux Cafe, and BAM—there’s sizzling street art, live snippets of urban dreams all over. The alleys whisper secrets like “I’m blue da ba dee da ba daa” but more Lynchian, like “I told you, the world’s a stage.” Crazy, right?

Woman awoken by home invader in Prunedale, intruder escapes